I'll remember it forever, the moment I
signed up for my first Ironman. It was noon on Sept. 4, 2013, and as
soon as I clicked the "Submit Payment" button, I was overcome with a
wave of both glee and anxiety.
Seven thousand
and some odd miles away, my friend Doug was completing the same process
during a business trip in Dubai, where it was 8 p.m.
A
couple of minutes later? Ironman Chattanooga had sold out, and we
traded texts expressing how lucky we were to have both gotten in. After
all, he lived in California, and if, say, he'd gotten in and I hadn't,
this whole story would have had a much different ending. (Or there might
not even be an ending.)
Anyway, last Sunday --
one year and hundreds of training hours later -- we both found
ourselves in a line of about 2,300 people standing near the banks of the
Tennessee River, waiting to head out for 144.6 miles of swimming,
biking and running. Here are the moments and other assorted things that
stand out, having now had several days to decompress:
Most memorable pre-race moment:
Literally just minutes before we got in the water, a Mexican fellow
named Luis Alvarez Gonzalez appeared out of nowhere and began
explaining/boasting that he had just flown by private jet from Mallorca,
Spain, where THE PREVIOUS DAY he had done the inaugural Ironman event
there. Apparently, he has done every Ironman race in the world, although
this had to have been the first one he's done while swimming with a
cycling jersey stuffed in the front of his tri shorts. When he realized
he was wearing the wrong type of jersey for water usage, he slouched
over and said, "Oh -- hahaha! What was I thinking??" We don't know
either, Luis...
Most memorable moment during the swim:
The 2.4-mile swim course is entirely with the current, and made for
some incredibly fast times. The top swimmer, for instance -- Barrett
Brandon of Texas -- did it in 38 minutes, 6 seconds. As a point of
comparison, the fastest swim time at the World Championships in Kona
last year was more than 10-1/2 minutes slower. At our athletes' meeting a
couple of days earlier, we were informed that someone floated the
entire course on their back in just 90 minutes. So, needless to say,
everyone was going to be fast. The course is on a section of the
Tennessee River that forms an "S" -- from the docks at the start, it
banked left, then right, then left again. Since we just had to keep the
sight buoys on our left, and since the sight buoys basically hugged
pretty close to the riverbank on the left side, it was legal to "swim
the tangents," and as a swimmer who is slow enough that floating bodies
stand a fighting chance of outpacing me, I tried to swim those tangents
to gain an advantage. OK, so, staying focused: The most memorable moment
was when I was so far away from the pack that I passed just a few yards
from a volunteer kayaker who was patrolling the perimeter of the course
-- and that kayaker was a friend from Charlotte! I yelled her name
while turning my head to breathe to my right, without breaking stroke.
About 60 seconds later, I realized I had been sighting off the wrong
landmark, and my heart sunk. Fortunately, I didn't (sink, that is),
climbing out of the water in a slow but steady 1:01:19.
Speaking of floating bodies:
In what would be arguably only the second-most-disturbing post-race
revelation, Chattanooga authorities pulled the body of a 34-year-old man
from the river during Sunday's race, just downstream from the finish.
He was not a participant.
First mistake (minor): A friend had advised me a week before the race to make sure to hit the porta-potty in T1. I should have followed that advice.
Most frustrating thing about the bike leg: Stopped
to use the porta-potty once around Mile 47, then had to use it again
less than 20 miles later. The second time, there were only two guys in
line, but for some reason, it took four minutes to get through it. All I
could think was, "If I'd gone in T1, I wouldn't be here right now!"
Most surprising thing about the bike leg:
I'd say, "The fact that it was 116 miles long instead of the standard
112," except we'd known for more than a month that race officials had
been forced to lengthen our ride time -- due to a Georgia church that
didn't want cyclists disrupting traffic trying to get to and from its
Sunday-morning worship. No, what was surprising was how easy the course
felt. I'd previewed it twice (once in the spring and once in the
summer), and familiarity helped. So did relatively cool air, coupled
with clouds that hid the sun. But I kept the intensity level right
around Zone 2, maybe pushing up into Zone 3 once or twice for a minute
or two at most, but never even sniffing Zone 4. Didn't truly mash the
pedals at all; never gave in to the urge to go after someone I felt
shouldn't be passing me; I'm not even sure I broke a sweat over the
course of the 6 hours, 12 minutes and 41 seconds I was on the bike. The
ultimate goal was to give up the great bike split in order to set the
table for a great run split.
No wait, THIS was the most surprising thing about the bike leg:
On the way out of Chattanooga and over the first couple dozen miles of
the bike course, I saw a smattering of athletes who were changing tires
on the side of the road. By smattering, I mean two. Three maybe? I can't
even remember, because it wasn't an epidemic. More curious were the two
just kind of dirty-/sandy-looking patches of road between Miles 20 and
30 that were coned off, with cops diverting us over into the oncoming
traffic lane. Didn't think much of those, either. Around Mile 32,
though, we touched the southernmost point on the course and made a sharp
left onto the notoriously forgiving Hog Jowl Road, which offers a
five-mile rolling descent featuring pastoral views of forests, fields
and mini-mountains to the east. Those sights were there, but the
roadside in the foreground was littered with cyclists fumbling for
quick-release levers on their wheels, digging tire levers into their
rims, connecting "fix-a-flat" canisters to valve stems, pulling tubes
from spare kits, examining Zipps for damage. I thought, "What in the
world is going on here? This can't be that common for an Ironman..." I
started to get pretty nervous, as someone riding tubulars with nothing
more than a can of Pit Stop fastened by electrical tape to my rear
bottle cages. This being a loop course, we traversed this section of
downhill again from about Mile 79 to 84ish -- again, several cyclists
were performing unexpected but necessary repairs. At one point, I had a
waking nightmare that starred me running my bike in for the last 35
miles. Fortunately, I was spared from tire problems, extending my streak
of no-flats-in-a-race to five full years. That night, I would learn
that some jackass had poured oil on Cove Road in the hopes of causing
bike wrecks, and had strewn tacks along it with the intent of wreaking
havoc on our tires. I've thought multiple times since the race how much I
wish I could be there if and when what comes around goes around.
Most challenging moment, mentally:
Looking at my watch after running out of T2, seeing that I'd been doing
physical activity nonstop for 7 hours and 22 minutes, and realizing
that I was heading off to run a marathon.
Second mistake (more significant): I've
run more than enough marathons now (17) to know well how unwise it is
to go out too fast. My goal was a sub-4-hour marathon, and pretty much
everyone knows 9:09 is 4-hour marathon pace. So I should have been
focusing on probably 9:30 for the first mile, 9:15 for the second, then
clicking 9:05s. That's about my ability, for someone who can
consistently run marathons in the 3:20s and who on good days can deep
into the three-teens. So what do I do? First mile, 8:13; second mile,
8:33; third mile, 8:38; fourth mile, 8:48; fifth was 8:57. Reverse that
sequence and those, ideally, would have been my splits for Miles 22-26.
Oh well. That wasn't my biggest problem...
Most challenging moment, physically: By
the time I started the run, I had consumed about 15 gallons of Powerbar
Perform, 40 gels, 17 Powerbars, 12 Honey Stinger waffles, and a carton
of Uncrustables. Well, maybe my counting is a little off... OK... but it
was definitely a lot. And I was done. But I knew that despite all those
calories, I was running in a deficit and needed to keep fueling to have
the energy to go for another four hours. So I took another GU -- and
had to fight the urge to throw it back up. I mean, I wasn't by any means
violently ill, and I don't want to give off the impression that, "Oh, I
could have easily run sub-4 if it weren't for those stupid gels." But I
was for sure, FOR SURE struggling with the thought of continuing to
consume more fake food. I actually thought at one point that if I could
make myself throw up, I could get back on track. In addition, there's no
question: I'd gone out too fast. It was by no means hot -- not by any
measure -- but it was humid, and that was sapping my strength a bit as
well. Up to Mile 12, I hadn't walked--
QUICK ASIDE: Third mistake (somewhat significant): I should have walked through every aid station from the first one on.
Most challenging moment, physically (continued):
--as I was saying, I hadn't walked. Well, somewhere in Mile 12, I
walked. It was my slowest mile of the day: 10:46. I was fighting acid
reflux, and as I walked, I actually experienced some light-headedness
that was strange enough that I wondered quite seriously whether I needed
intravenous fluids. It passed. I stopped at Special Needs near the
start of the second loop, grabbed a couple slices of beef jerky, hoping
the salty-not-sweet taste would be what I was looking for -- it wasn't
(it actually tasted worse than the GUs). It started raining. I could
tell that both my feet and the insoles of my Sauconys were swelling. I
worried about blisters. Oddly, though, I never worried about not
finishing, never got that defeated feeling I've gotten in marathons when
I've bonked and considered dropping out. I was advancing slowly, and
needing walk breaks; but the walk breaks were short, and somewhere
around Mile 14 I found a feeding formula that felt fresh and satisfying:
a handful of red grapes at every aid station provided a natural
sweetness that I just wasn't getting from the GUs, and I also started
grabbing a cup of Coke at every aid station and pouring it over ice. I
can't explain how soda (which I almost never drink) tasted so much like
nectar of the gods in those moments, but it did. Around Mile 23, as we
turned onto Riverview Road with its spectacular homes and golf course
views, I was feeling human again. I looked at my watch and realized that
-- if I hustled -- I could still get in under 11 hours and 30 minutes,
still a respectable time.
And then: As
we neared the end of Riverview Road and the last long climb up Barton
before the stretch run, I spotted my friend Doug up ahead. This is the
old college roommate and fraternity brother who had signed up for
Chattanooga with me more than a year ago. We've tried to make it a
tradition to do a race together every year, but for both of us, it was
our first full Ironman. So, I'm approaching quickly, and I'm sizing up
the situation. There's a part of me that wanted to finish with him, but
also a part of me that wanted a time that reflected my absolute best
effort in the race, which would have meant saying "Hey, good job!" to
him, and then "See you at the finish!" I was about 5 yards behind him at
this point. "Hey dude," I called out, and he looked over his shoulder
with a smile. "I was wondering when you'd catch me," he said. I may have
said something that suggested I might push on ahead, but Doug made it
clear he was interested in finishing together. Honestly, in the moment, I
was wishing he had said, "Do what you need to do, then cheer me in."
But for the last two miles, I got him to run as hard as he could, and he
got me to slow up as much as I could -- though he was still probably 20
feet back for much of those two miles. I really wanted those minutes,
those seconds.
As we came down the last little hill
and around the last little bend before the long finish chute, Doug
found his kick. I matched his stride and was overwhelmed by the sight of
the finish line, the thunderous crowd, the thumping music, the booming
voice of announcer Mike Reilly, all of my training flashing before my
eyes, what my family has meant through this process, what my coach has
meant through this process, all the great training partners, my
friendship with Doug. We both pumped our fists ecstatically, he raised
his arms in triumph, we crossed, I turned to him, swung my hand up to
crash into his, and he grabbed me in a powerful bear hug. It was an
unbelievably special moment: I started this journey with him, we didn't
train together, we were similarly skilled in none of the disciplines,
and yet here we had run into each other 20 minutes from the finish line
and had put a completely unexpected exclamation point on what to date
has been the most significant accomplishment in our respective careers
as triathletes. Which leads me to...
Fourth mistake (major): If
I could go back to that moment on Riverview Road again, to right before
Mile 24, to the point where I closed in on Doug, I'd have declared my
desire to finish together immediately. I'd have run beside him instead
of ahead of him. I'd have completely pushed any thoughts of finishing an
extra two or three minutes faster out of my head. At my ability level
-- at MOST ability levels -- it's not the minutes that matter, it's the
moments. The memorable ones, the frustrating ones, the surprising ones
and the challenging ones. It's those moments, and how you respond to
them, that matter. The final minute of that race? The way Doug and I
crossed that finish line? Without a doubt, my happiest moment ever as an
athlete of any kind. I'll remember it forever.
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